Journeying With Jeremus: Volume One
by Merceni
Summary: A single man's influence to the world is naught but a speck of dust upon the annals of history; Fated to be forgotten as new pages are written, and the dust brushed from the covers. Such is the fate of Jeremus. A Mount And Blade Warband AU set 200 Years before the events of Bannerlord in the fictional realm of Calradia.


**Author's Notes:** This Story is written with permission from Borrisnator from Krenn Roleplay, a Mount & Blade Warband Persistent Kingdoms Mod community. This story utilizes the locations and lore created by the user Borrisnator for Geroia, a fictional location which in the Mount & Blade Universe, is vaguely described as a far away land where some of the companion heroes in the game hailed from. He has graciously allowed me to use some of the Geroian lore, setting, and map that he created, upon which this story is based. Think of this story as a fanfiction, built upon another fanfic of the Mount & Blade Warband Universe. The time period in which this story takes place is approximately 200 years prior to the events of Bannerlord, and 400 years prior to those of Warband. Please visit the Krenn Roleplay M&B Warband Community, at WlodsForgeDotProboardsDotCom (Replace the Dots with Periods), if you wish to see the map and lore that he created, as well as the Mount and Blade Roleplay community that inspired this story in the first place!

* * *

A land flowing with milk and honey, the term refers to a place of prosperity and bountiful abundance; At the least, that's what I heard it means in the Empire. Often, the more worldly who use this phrase cite the massive acres of vineyards surrounding Sunor, the old Calrad capital, or to the common folk, the local lord's larder, when one of them manages to sneak past the watch to pilfer some wine and grain from the winter stores! But all that pales in comparison, when you take but a glimpse at my homeland.

Geroia.

In Geroia, the land does indeed flow in milk and honey, only, instead of milk, it is coffee infused with flakes of nutmeg flowing from steaming kettles found in the stalls of every marketplace and bazaar. The honey, well, we have plenty of that too, but it is oft substituted with sugar carried in from the southern plantations. Brought in atop the backs of men and beasts alike who bear heavy loads across pavestones, the streets are lined with sacks filled to the brim with saffron and cloves. These are used to bake delicacies, like decadent marzipan cakes slathered in frosted sugars, thin almond wafers light as air, and petite fruit tarts drizzled with spice-infused sauces. They are baked daily in the guilds behind the leisurely coffee houses, where the affluent recline in klinai_1_ overlooking the gold speckled sunsets of the sea, smoking rolled pipes of tobacco as they discuss trade routes and engage in the minor squabbles of politics; All the while indulging themselves in every manner of delicacy and vice that would make even an Imperial Calrad's court seem modest! (I should know, I've been dragged quite unwillingly into one once, past a group of hired mourners celebrating the funeral banquet of some poor noble's favorite pet carp, on accusation of me being the murderer of said fish. I swear I was innocent there, how was anyone to know that an entire canal in the city center was dedicated to this Logothetes_2_ Carpio Cyprinus III as a recreational swimming pool? And they were even calling it the heinous murder of an official of the empire, who has ever heard of a carp being named to a government position! This is a woeful story of injustice reserved for later in this chronicle, however.)

Otherwise, trade wares are loaded aboard ships in the Emerald Gulf, or sent through the Serrates mountain range, destined for the rest of the Calradian Peninsula and beyond. The commodities we produce, plus the commerce that goes through our cities and ports, together they make up the lifeblood of our lands, every native-born Geroian knows this much. So too, do the Geroian senators, and they know it well too, judging by how they line their pockets with taxes excised from the guilds, who in turn impose numerous tariffs on foreign traders operating through their offices. Not that anyone ever complained much, of course, the hungry mouths of the rest of the continent were enough to always turn a profit for most people involved. Even the commoners partook in a bit of this wealth too, when they chose to look the other way when a shipment went missing, or when a little spice seeped out of a torn sack into waiting pockets. The spilt peppercorns from wagons did more for alms in a day than what the clergy could achieve in a month! Not that anyone would be stupid enough to stoop down in a busy Geroian roadway, of course, not unless they'd like to meet the Maker in a very unpleasant manner.

Ah, you must also be curious, yes? That I even recount this tale to you not in person, but across parchment or hide, depending on how many copies of this chronicle are ever reproduced beyond the original manuscript. Even more so, considering that this is no medical or philosophical treatise in the great institutions of knowledge, nor an epic about figures of great import to these lands worthy of song. And yet, here I am, writing upon these treasured pages, something as trivial as a biography chronicling my personal experiences. Well, it might not be a short tale, but it is a unique one that may enthrall those seeking to learn about the diverse cultures of the various regions and peoples of southern and western Calradia from the perspective of a well-travelled Geroian. I encourage you, whether you be a young bored nobleman in his study, or a ruffian shifting through my luggage after having slain me, to take a seat by the hearth, and consider...

**_Journeying with Jeremus, Volume 1._**

**Footnotes**

_^1. Klinai: A sort of padded furniture or couch used to recline upon. It is of Imperial Calradian Origin. Common amongst the wealthy in _Geroia_ and the Calrad Empire, as well as a few other regions near the south._

_^2. Logothetes: An Administrative title/position in the Calrad Empire, sometimes honorarily bestowed and sometimes without actual political clout/powers, or so I've heard._

* * *

**799 AF: Prologue**

It was during the waning years of a century marked by bloodshed and conflict that I came into this world. The bloodiest of conflicts in Geroia had, for the most part, subsided due to the Calrad emperor's decree decades earlier, with only minor skirmishes between individual nobles or guilds erupting from time to time. Even these had became less frequent, as people gradually figured that the optimum method of expunging their competitors was not with blades, but through purse strings. And so, I was born into an era of relative peace in the free city state of Gallurexus. My father was the moderately successful co-proprietor of a small business, one that worked to ship wheat and spelt grain from the southern provinces of the Calrad. Empire to the Geroian city states, and on the return voyages to the Empire, sacks of sugar would be loaded onto the ships for a tidy profit. My father would often travel to and from various ports along the Geroian coast to ensure that there was enough grain to go around, as part of a larger network of merchants ensuring that the city states remained fed. While there is plenty of arable land in Geroia, most of it is dedicated towards cash crop production on plantations, rather than food for local consumption, and as a result, Geroia imports much of its grain from overseas. While you would assume that my father would be at least, modestly wealthy if the description of his business were any indication. I can safely say that it is not the case; Part of my father's agreement when he first established the trade contract was, as the lesser partner in establishing the business, he would receive the profits from the sale of the grain that was brought from the empire, while also being obligated to pay the majority of the expenses incurred. The proceeds of the more valuable commodity, the refined sugarcane, would be divided amongst the other investors of the business. We were still well off though, all things considered. He always told me that just having that much was something to appreciate, considering that not a generation earlier, his own father, my grandfather, had nothing but a pair of sandals and the clothes on his back as he fled from his hometown. It had been pillaged by the leaderless armies that roamed the countryside during the Rexian Massacres, and it was no small miracle that, not only had my grandfather survived, but amidst the instability of those trying times, prospered. It was off the small inheritance that he'd left upon his passing that my father built up his own business in shipping. When I pressed for more on what my grandfather did for work, my father stayed tight-lipped, saying no more than that he was involved in a unique form of commerce and shipping. In a trying time when trade routes were fractured, and the navy too busy revolting against their fleet commanders to patrol the waters, there is little wrong with bypassing the trade inspections of already beleaguered port officials in favor of fulfilling the needs of the province in a timely manner..

I do not know much, if anything about my mother's upbringing, but from what little my father told me of her, she was a young Geroian lady from neighboring Greta that he had met while visiting the port there on business. To cut a long winded story about their meeting short, it was, as one might call it, a love at first sight. A story that, to the particular begreavement of her family there, included her running off with him under the cover of a moonless night sky on a stolen patrol vessel to a waiting ship in the harbor. That, as a result, created quite a bit of animosity between my father, and a good number of the reputable citizens there who were acquainted with her family. Many of whom were in positions of authority with their local guild branches or connected to the senatorial representatives of the city. Needless to say, while my father could continue to conduct limited business there through his associates (The purchase of new permits or contracts from the Gretan guilds were off limits), he told me that he certainly felt the cold glares boring into his neck whenever he passed to and from his few contacts in the city there, and thus would never dare to linger long. Never would he fail to mention though, to say that my mother's aura of warmth was always enough to melt the chill of those who meant him ill, reaffirming his belief that, despite all of the troubles and problems that arose from their unorthodox marriage, each and every moment of his time with her was worthwhile.

What irony it was then, that she was to die mere weeks after giving life to me. It had been a relatively quiet (By Geroian standards), but joyous occasion in that small family of three at the time. Many mothers and their offspring often perish due to the strains of childbirth, and after the worse had passed with no complications, my father said that at the time he was truly relieved to see both of us had made it safely through. That relief soon turned to sorrow, when he returned one evening from a guild meeting, only to be greeted with a villa billowing black smoke. His workers and neighbors were standing outside, helpless to stop the flames that were ravaging his home. The only mercy was that at the time, I was with my mother in the garden sitting beneath a pomegranate tree when the fire broke out. Leaving me in the hands of one of the wet nurses, she rushed back inside the burning villa against all advice and wisdom. The nurse later said that my mother had wanted to save one of the portraits of our family that my father had commissioned.

She never returned.

* * *

**805 AF:**

The sound of waves crashing against jagged stone, a gentle sea breeze passing through the leaves of the almond groves planted high above. I watched from a high cliff as a galley pulled past the mouth of the harbor, its sails bearing the insignia of my fathers trade company. It had grown in the past six years, for why wouldn't it? When a grieving man throws himself into his work, taking contract upon contract without end, he ends up making quite a bit of progress in the mercantile trade. Of course, the other partners in the business continued to take the lion's share of the profits, but my father hardly did it for the denari I think.. When he returned from his voyages which would often span for months on end, he'd tell me stories from time to time; Those of his past adventures as a younger man, of the amazing sights he'd seen while traveling, or the remarkable people he'd spoken to. His awe inspiring descriptions and vibrant storytelling often held me rapt with attention, leaving me eagerly awaiting the next line of the (partially fictitious) stories he'd weave together.

At times though, I noticed that sometimes his voice shook unsteadily, his eyes becoming unfocused and gazing off at some faraway thing that I couldn't see, before quickly recovering and continuing on with his tale as though nothing was wrong. The loss of my mother had hit hard, his heart nearly torn apart at her untimely departure. Late in the evenings, sometimes I would hear him cursing down the hall, berating my mother for her foolishness, and gradually, breaking down into sob-filled mourning that only muted itself as the night drew on. Despite the urging from distant relatives to remarry, his friends of friends pushing forward their unmarried daughters hoping for a betrothal, the fruitless efforts of women who tried to approach him, he always refused. I suppose it might be considered heart warming, that he loved his wife so dearly that he would never take another.

But still, without a mother, it was sometimes lonely for a young boy of six, left only with the company of a few hired servants and a vacant villa built adjacent to the old ruins to call 'his'. After the fire, my father never did rebuild the home as it originally was, opting instead to have a modest villa built on the other side of the property. Funnily enough, the place was hardly ever used, outside of the rare occurrence that father was home. Usually, I only stayed when he was at there as well. Otherwise, most of the time I would be shuffled around between the households of the neighbors, or sent to stay for months at a time with a merchant or some other minor landless noble's family. Now in retrospect, I suppose it was to keep a growing boy from languishing alone in a nearly vacant villa, isolated from the outside world. Not that I complained much about it, really, I still had good teachers to guide me, those of my age to run about with outdoors, the chance to share meals around a table with others, even if they were not kin. It was the best outcome one could hope for, where neither mother or father were present to raise you. In my early youth, I knew no different, and was content for the most part.

After all, I'd get to see my father again, to hear another one of his stories.

* * *

**809 AF:**

I was ten years of age now by this time.

My father had been gone for four of them. Now, I don't mean that he had been killed or anything of that sort! It was just that he had been, absent, ever since that last visit years back. He'd been taking on more and more work, as the demand for grain grew ever larger, and as the sacks of sugar sat in backlogged warehouses, awaiting transport aboard the already overloaded ships. But this time, he was coming home, a letter written, stamped, and sealed in wax by him said as much. I was sure of it as I snacked on a fig and sat on a stone bench in the residential sector of Gallurexus, waiting for someone to come and bring me to him.

There was so much I had to tell him. How I learned to climb the tallest date trees without falling. Fish from the river banks with only a small woven net to pull out pike and trout! Now I could do basic arithmetics so that those merchants couldn't ask for too much money anymore when I bought treats. So much, what else- Ah! I could hold a quill properly without dripping ink all over the parchment now! And my calligraphy was decent enough, or so my tutor told me. I'd even been able to write out the orders for household supplies in place of the steward that you'd hired a while ago who had bad penmanship. (Sure, he tell me not to sneak in orders for an absurd quantity of sweets when I thought he wasn't looking, but hard work isn't free you know!) Any moment now, and I would be on my way to show him myself just how much his son has grown!

Words call out from behind me, and I turned around to meet the gaze of a bulky man who towered above me, a hired servant known simply as Gil. Well, he played more of the role of a bodyguard really, given his former occupation as a Geroian auxiliary in the Calrad. Army. During the wars, Gil had fought as fiercely as his namesake, or so I heard from the other frightened servants. I liked him though, he was kind enough to me, if a bit sullen. He gestured to me, and then to a cushioned cart with a horse. Nodding my head, I stepped forward as Gil lifted my feet up to help me clamber aboard. After such a long absence, I was eager to meet with my father again for the short time that he'd stay in the city.

"Hey, Gil, why did you pick me up instead of Phileas? I didn't know you could drive a wagon." I said, exclaiming in feigned surprise. It was fun to annoy him.

"..."

"Ah, its ok if you don't want to talk I guess. Do you want some?" I said, holding out a half eaten fig still dripping with saliva.

"No." Gil replied, narrowing his eyes as he ignored the offered fruit from my outstretched hand. I shrugged and continued eating as I kept jostling him for a response.

"..When do you think we'll get there?"

"Soon."

"Are we there yet?"

This back and forth but mostly one sided conversation continued, until twenty minutes later, we arrived at the main guild office to meet my father. Gil Pulled off to the side of the road, and we disembarked, Gil handing off the reigns of the horse to a guild employee as we headed inside. My father should be here finalizing the orders that he'd ship when he went on his next voyage. And hopefully, he'd agree to take me with him this time.

Passing beneath the archway held up by brightly colored painted columns designating the main entryway of the guild, I'm greeted with the sight of one of Gallurexus's most important sites. It was the heart of the city, and to call the Guild Office of Gallurexus as being merely an office would not do it justice. That name is more of a holdover title from the early days of Geroia, when the city was nothing more than a recently established outpost used as the staging grounds for the first colonial efforts of the region. From humble origins as a small shack erected in an empty field near the docks, grew the massive forums where all of the individual smaller guilds and associations in the province gathered beneath the same figurative roof in the name of commerce. It was filled with administrative offices, merchant meeting halls, and more all centered around an open air agora where all manner of business was conducted. There was even a small courtroom for handling disputes between merchants, both foreign and local; It was here that the Juris Consulti_1_ bickered over the many legalities and nuances regarding commercial trade laws in the province. A place where one's ears (and desire to live) goes to die, I'd like to say.

As a member of the Corpora Naviculariorum_2_ of Gallurexus, my father was in the rearmost section, located closest to the docks and warehouses outside the guild. The feeding of the city took priority before all else, after all. This wasn't to our favor though, as we had to go through the throngs of people heading to and from the spice association in the central agora, the most frequently visited part of the guild. If I had tried to go there alone without the firm grip of Gil's hand on my shoulders to guide me, I'd have ended up buried beneath a sack of pepper, paperwork, or both. It was not long after passing through the crowds of people flocking around the scattered merchants in the agora that we arrived at the Corpora.

Assumptions that the offices of a merchant network intended to feed a province of this size would be in a state of semi-controlled chaos, second only to the spice associations, well, are half true. Relatively speaking, in comparison with the other guilds it was rather calm, if you could call it that. A few (dozen) contract brokers and merchants gathered around a roundtable here, some of the guild clerks furiously stamping away at neverending stacks of documents there. On my left shoulder, I see a guildsman trip over his own bootlaces, and his pinky finger is run over by a hand trolley. To the right is a baker accused of cutting his bread with eggshells and sawdust being hauled off by the soldiers. Through the windows and open archways, you can catch glimpses of the jetties, where cartloads of grain and other foodstuffs are offloaded from galleys and sent to warehouses, soon to be processed and distributed throughout the province.

On one of those ships is my father, stepping across a gangplank to board his ship. One of the sailors retracting the plank, as another begins to unlash the ropes mooring the vessel to the harbor's piles…

What?

Where was he going, he told me that, he promised!

"Wait!" I yelled out, but Gil holds me back. I begin to squirm under his grasp, trying to free myself so I can run towards my father, but it's no use. Why! Why won't he let me-

"Stay here." Gil says firmly, and I comply beneath the weight of his serious tone of voice. I watch from inside the guild as he jogs over to the ship and calls out to one of the sailors on board, who speaks with him for a bit before disappearing beneath the deck. A few minutes later, my father emerges from the hold, and then he and Gil engage in hushed conversation which goes on for what seems to be hours. My anxiety rises, what is going on?

Now some of the crewmen start flicking their attention between me and my father, muttering in hushed tones. Now they stopped speaking, Giles shakes his head. Did he fail to convince my father? Wait, no, Gil is walking back towards me, and wordlessly, Im pulled along by the shoulders out towards the docks. A lone gangplank is extended, and it seems as though everyone aboard is watching me as I step aboard.

My father remains standing in place, eyes closed and face expressionless. His arm muscles are twitching as he constantly fidgets with his hands. I stare up at him, now at a loss for words. All of my planned arguments, the words to beg and plead my case vanishing as I stand before the man who was gone for these past four years.

They weren't necessary, I decided, as I slowly approached my father and wrapped my arms around his waist.

Tears begin to fall from his eyes as he returns the gesture. It looks like he missed me too.

**Footnotes:**

_^1. Juris _Consulti_: The equivalent of an armchair lawyer, whatever that is. These individuals have no formal training in law, but attempt to make a few denari fighting the legal cases of clients that desire to have someone else fight their legal battles. You get what you pay for, so be prepared to pay dearly if you want someone worth their salt!_

_^2. Corpora Naviculariorum: A collection of merchants whose primary duty is _ensure_ that the populace remains fed. Every City State of _Geroia_ has one established, each of which is tasked with maintaining that province's food supply. *The real world example analogous to this is the corpora _naviculariorum_ of Rome, which moved Egyptian grain to the city. What is this Rome or Egypt again?_


End file.
